


Good ol' Connie and Mike

by NancyStew



Category: Law & Order
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-01-08 00:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21227048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NancyStew/pseuds/NancyStew
Summary: Short vignettes of Connie Rubirosa and Mike Cutter. No smut; just banter, silliness, and unresolved sexual tension. [Updated to add that now there's a tiny bit of poorly written smut (in chapter 5). It's a couple of swear words and mild dirty talk. Probably too tame for most but not tame enough for others. So, basically pointless.]





	1. All the Deets

**Author's Note:**

> WeTV has been running a Law & Order marathon and it's been a balm for my soul. Ten years ago when the show was first on, I remember trying and failing to convince people that Lupo/Bernard were right up there with the classic Briscoe/Logan-Curtis-Green cop pairings. This time around, since I'm binge-watching, I'm digging the evolving McCoy/Rubirosa/Cutter storylines, especially around election time. L&O, of course, is the uber procedural and revealed so little personal information about their characters, but it feels like in the last few seasons the writers had a little more leeway. The Connie/Mike romance is practically operatic by L&O standards. I also find Jack McCoy really interesting in 2019 -- he's very much a pre-MeToo hero, taking on the whole Bush administration but sleeping with his assistants. Anywho. It's fan fic, so let's disregard the problematic aspects and just dive into the sexual tension-filled world of unresolved office romance. Because let's be honest: McCoy can still get it. (These bits are all Connie and Mike, though.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connie makes the papers.

Mike was sitting next to Connie’s desk, chatting as she typed up notes from their conversation. It was a bright Monday morning in the district attorney’s office. Connie’s desk was in what she had euphemistically described to her mother as an “open-concept office” near the other ADAs. In truth it was more of a glorified hallway. She could hear constant chatter, typing, and ringing phones but not actual conversations. And her desk was right outside Mike’s office—_his very nice corner office that he probably does not feel the need to misrepresent to his mother, _ she thought.

“Bailey’s arraignment tomorrow,” Mike said, unconsciously turning a baseball in his right hand. “Ask for remand.”

Connie nodded, reading as she typed, “‘Defendant is a flight risk with significant business interests in Russia.’” 

“I’d say there’s about half a dozen Russian oligarchs ready to smuggle him across the Atlantic on their yachts,” said Mike dryly. 

“At last count,” said Connie, then paused thoughtfully. “I never understood the appeal of a yacht. Small rooms, no chance of escape. It’s like an RV on water.”

Mike laughed. “I’m more of a schooner man myself,” he said. “Who’s Bailey’s counsel?”

Connie opened a file folder and frowned. “Erica Gardner.” 

Mike tightened his grip on the ball. Gardner was the one who had cross-examined Connie during the Marcus Woll trial. 

“She sure picks some winners,” Connie said. Her tone was light, but she kept her eyes on the screen. Weeks had passed since the Woll trial and Connie and Mike had not talked about it once. Connie remembered Jack smirking as he told them they’d have to “work day and night together” on all the resultant appeals. And they had—day and night, the entire weekend. In torturous near-silence. Speaking only about case logistics and administrative details, as clinically as two actors in an anti-sexual harassment training video. Whatever scenario Jack had been intimating had never come to pass. _Poor Mike_, thought Connie, not for the first time. _When you’re walking on eggshells, it’s hard to sweep someone off their feet._ Her brain added: _Or onto a desk._ Connie adjusted her chair. _Cut it out, Rubirosa._

After that one awful weekend, somehow they’d gone right back to how they’d been. Well, maybe not _right_ to how they’d been—there were fewer overt comments from Mike about Connie’s attractiveness. Less teasing from Connie about their age difference. Fewer references to jealousy from either party.

“Hrmph,” grunted Mike. “Well, if Gardner brings up habeas corpus—if she even so much as hints in the general direction of habeas corpus—counter with—”

“People v. Arnikov,” said Connie, typing. “With maybe a dash of People v. Fathelbab thrown in.” 

“Not your first rodeo,” Mike acknowledged.

Suddenly a hand appeared in the doorway above Mike’s head. The hand clutched a copy of the _Post_ opened to the Page Six gossip column. Whoever the hand belonged to was wiggling the paper, laughing and singing, “Take! Me out to the balllll gammmmme! Take! Me out to the crooooowwwwd!”

Connie blanched.

The hand was replaced by the head of Summer Intern Janet, the newspaper wiggler who now addressed Connie enthusiastically: “You. Are. A _legend._ You have to come by the intern desk and tell us _everything._ We want all the deets. For reals. It’s all we can talk about. You’re a _legend."_

Mike looked up just as Janet looked down to see whose head she was speaking over. She froze in horror. “Oh, my God,” she squeaked. 

Shuffling out at a weird diagonal—through the doorway but away from Mike—she muttered, “Mister Cutter. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were… uh… I’m so sorry.”

Mike raised an eyebrow, giving her what was known to the interns as “the Cutter stare.” Connie recognized the amusement in Mike’s expression but suspected Janet did not.

“It’s okay, Janet,” said Connie, rescuing the young woman. “We’re in the middle of a meeting, but I’ll come by later.”

“Cool cool!” said Janet, attempting to regain some dignity. “Okay. Sorry. Sorry, Mister Cutter.” And she scurried out the door.

Mike turned to Connie incredulously. “So now we’re employing the cast of _Jersey Shore?"_

Connie smiled. “She’s at the top of her class at Hudson,” she said.

“My alma mater?” said Mike. “I’m rescinding my donation.”

“You don’t have to intimidate the interns, you know,” said Connie. “They’re all terrified of you anyway.”

“I don’t intimidate!” said Mike. “You think I intimidate?” Connie only smiled. He frowned. “So what was that all about?”

“Nothing,” said Connie, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Mike knew that look… Embarrassed avoidance. He remembered what Janet had been singing, looked at the baseball in his hand, and tensed. Some kind of office in-joke about him? Was it still that obvious?

Surreptitious footsteps sounded in the hallway. Suddenly a paper airplane sailed through the air, landing gently on the center of Connie’s desk. “_Legend!"_ sang a voice in the hall before being replaced by the tap-tap-tap of kitten heels speed-walking away.

Before Connie could move, Mike grabbed the paper airplane. “I guess I wasn’t all _that_ intimidating,” he said, unfolding it. 

“Wait! Mike—”

Mike looked down. It was the Page Six article, obviously torn from the paper in haste. “Ripped from the headlines,” mused Mike, glancing at the picture at the top of the column.

He nearly choked. 

The picture was of Connie. She was wearing a long black dress and looked… well, she looked how she always looked, thought Mike. Next to her was a tall, handsome man in a tuxedo. He had his hand on her back. They were looking off camera, smiling and talking.

The caption read: “Yankees relief pitcher Miguel Bernardino escorted a gorgeous mystery woman at Saturday’s Latin-American Enterprise Council benefit at the Carlyle. Bernardino’s rep refused to comment, but sources say his date was Consuela Ruberosa of the district attorney’s office. All we can say is: If the new hometown hero is looking to get some parking tickets fixed, he’s found a very pleasant way to do it.”

Mike was stunned. Connie braced herself.

“They spelled your name wrong,” he said.

“I know,” said Connie. She looked at him, searching. “Mike—”

“You’re dating _Bernardino?"_ he said incredulously.

“Mike—”

“‘Traded from the Braves for _three_ bench players’ Bernardino?”

“We’re not—”

“‘3.08 ERA’ Bernardino?”

“I don’t even know what—”

“Personally carried Game 6 of the division series for the Braves last year? The number one draft pick in my fantasy league two years running?” By now Mike was smiling. “I don’t care what you do, Rubirosa, but you _better_ fix those parking tickets!"

Connie laughed, relieved to have the tension broken. “Men and sports. You’re ridiculous.” 

“_I’m_ ridiculous?” said Mike. “You’re the one dating the guy who could finally help the Bombers out of this slump, you’re acting like it’s no big deal, and _I’m_ ridiculous?” Mike leaned in. “He’s the crown jewel of my fantasy league team, Connie. The _crown jewel!"_

“Well, I’ll let him know you’re a fan,” she allowed. “And… I’m not dating him. We just met at this benefit. I barely know him.”

“Is that right? Well… too bad. As your boss, I order you to date him!” Mike suddenly caught himself. _Shit,_ he thought. _Too far._ He pivoted to a lamer joke. “Or tell him to call me, and _I’ll_ date him.”

Connie laughed a little less heartily. “Will do,” she said. “But I doubt I’ll ever meet him again. I helped put together this fundraiser. He was a guest of honor. We talked. There were cameras going off the whole night. I didn’t even know about the picture until my bodega guy gave me a congratulatory thumbs-up this morning.”

“Your bodega guy saw it?”

“And Jimmy at the coffee cart. I got emails from friends, frenemies," mused Connie. "I had no idea so many people read Page Six.”

Mike glanced at the clipping. “So you put this together? The ‘Latin-American Enterprise Council’?”

“It’s an initiative to help Latino small business owners. You know, pro bono legal counsel, no-interest loans, help with immigration issues.”

“Sounds like it’s definitively in the public good. Connie, why didn’t you tell me you were working on this? I could have helped. And how do you even have time? Our case load has been insane since Jack won the election,” said Mike, adding with a grumble, “Apparently our boss has gone from saint to avenging angel.” 

“I just helped a little with this one event,” said Connie. She thought for a second. “I like my work here, Mike, but ‘avenging angel’ is right. It’s all—punishment. Zeroing out the negative. I want to put something positive out there too. I like being the stick, but sometimes I want to be the carrot.”

Mike nodded and smiled. “Connie Rubirosa: ‘Sometimes I want to be the carrot.’”

Connie laughed. She didn’t mind the teasing. He couldn't hide his admiration. 

“I have to go,” Mike stood up. “I have a meeting.”

“Wait, what about the other arraignments tomorrow?”

“Use your best judgment. I just rubber-stamp your choices anyway. And, uh, Connie—” Mike paused in the doorway awkwardly, thought about what words to use, then looked at her straight-on. “I do know that your personal life is none of my business,” he said, then added hastily, “No one’s personal life here is any of my business.” Deliberate again. “But especially yours.” He paused and smiled. “Even if it involves the best relief pitcher the Yankees have seen since Sparky Lyle.”

“Okay,” said Connie. “Thanks, Mike.”

He nodded and started out the door. The baseball was turning quickly in his hand. 

“Wait! Mike,” said Connie.

He turned back. They locked eyes.

She looked down and sighed, then looked up again and said: “Who’s Sparky Lyle?”

Mike’s jaw dropped. “I am _outraged,"_ he said mock-seriously, clutching the baseball to his heart as Connie grinned wickedly and watched him stagger away. She turned back to her work, but a beat later heard him call out from his office, sly and accusing: “_Legend_.”


	2. Misrepresentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike Cutter's English accent is pretty impressive.

“Mike! Connie! In my office!” shouted Jack McCoy as Connie and Mike froze in the hallway. They had just returned from interviewing a witness in the Cumberland case and had been heading to their respective desks. They hadn’t necessarily been  _ sneaking  _ past Jack’s door, per se, but it’s true that their banter had quieted as soon as they got off the elevator in what  _ could _ have been perceived as a tacit agreement to avoid Jack at all costs.

No such luck.

“After you,” gestured Connie. Mike sighed. By now he was used to being cannon fodder. Connie followed him in.

“Explain something to me, Mike,” said Jack, his eyebrows knitting together in frustration. “Why, exactly, does a reporter at  _ The Daily Telegraph _ think you’re English?”

“I don’t know, Jack,” said Mike. “Why  _ does _ a reporter at  _ The Daily Telegraph _ think I’m English?”

“This is not a riddle!” shouted Jack. “This is a question about your professionalism! I received a call today from—” he checked a note on his desk, “—Tabitha Greyson, New York bureau chief for  _ The Daily Telegraph _ .  _ Apparently  _ she was visited today by my executive assistant district attorney, whom  _ she _ described as a—” he checked the note again, “—‘fit blond man from Manchester.’”

“Fit?” said Mike.

“Blond?” said Connie.

“You don’t think I’m blond?” Mike turned.

“I thought more… sandy brown. With a little… salt and pepper,” Connie trailed off.

“Salt and pepper?” Mike looked crestfallen.

“Enough!” said Jack, standing up. “Why does she think you’re English, Mike?”

“I can’t speak to her mind, or to what she thinks she heard,” said Mike. “I’m born and bred New Jersey. American as apple pie.”

“And baseball,” piped up Connie. “He’s as much English as he is a Viking.”

“So this Greyson woman is  _ lying? _ ” Jack asked.

Mike and Connie looked at each other. Stalling was fun, but pointless. And unethical.

“No, she’s not lying,” admitted Mike. “I… may have spoken in an English accent to make her more comfortable. To give us the information we needed.”

Jack just stood there, blinking disbelievingly.

“Lupo and Bernard told us she was missing home, Jack,” said Connie. “So Mike improvised. And it worked! He built a rapport with her. She gave us the name of a witness she’d refused to give the police.”

“There are other ways to build rapport besides acting like you’re in a community theater production of  _ The Mousetrap _ !”

“‘We use what we have,’ right, Jack?” said Connie pointedly.

Jack sighed. “Yes, we use what we  _ have.  _ Not what we’re  _ pretending _ to have. You two are not only avatars of me and my office, you are officers of the court. Misrepresenting yourselves isn’t just a disciplinary infraction, it’s breaking the law.”

“Oh, come on,” scoffed Mike. “We’ve used bluffs a million times before.”

“Is she a suspect?”

“No.”

“Then it’s not a bluff. It’s just a lie. Besides, you’ve probably made yourself look ridiculous. And, by extension, this office!”

“Actually, Jack,” said Connie. “His accent’s really good.”

Jack paused. “Really.” Connie wondered how it was possible for Jack to cram so much sarcasm into two syllables. He continued: “Well, let’s hear it.”

“What?” said Mike.

“Let’s hear it. Let’s hear some of the ol' Queen’s English. Tut tut. The language of Shakespeare.”

“Actually,” said Mike, “they say that vowels were more elongated in Shakespeare’s day, so Elizabeth English may have sounded like modern-day American.”

“Spare me the linguistic mansplaining. Preamble to the Constitution. In British. Go.”

Mike looked at Connie. She shrugged.

“We, the people of the United States,” began Mike, crisply hitting the T and D in “United,” “in order to form a more perfect union…”

As he spoke, Jack’s eyebrows rose. Connie smiled. She had never really been one of those women who swooned for an accent. As the child of immigrants, she hadn’t had the luxury of finding accents “cute” — they were more fraught, more imbued with complexity where she came from. Being different, or “exotic,” was a political act, not a party trick. But she had to admit, Mike sounded like he’d stepped straight out of  _ Coronation Street _ .

“…do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America,” finished Mike.

“Now the Declaration of Independence,” said McCoy.

“Jack—”

“Declare it!”

Mike sighed. “When in the course of human events…”

Connie wondered, standing there, if this was the weirdest moment she had ever experienced in Jack’s office. It certainly wasn’t the weirdest thing she’d experienced while working as an ADA. Her mother often told her that if her life were a TV show, it would be hard to keep track of all the plot twists. But, watching her boss declaim the words of the Founding Fathers to her other boss, she realized she really enjoyed these moments, strange as they were.

“…that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” finished Mike.

“That really is good,” said Jack. “Where did you learn this?”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Mike. “I’ve always had a pretty good ear. I didn’t know I was doing Manchester, I was just trying to sound English.”

“Astonishing,” marveled Jack. His anger seemed to have abated. 

Connie and Mike looked at each other. Time to go? They started to move to the door.

“Not so fast, Connie,” said Jack, training his eyes on her. “Now you explain to me why Ms. Greyson thinks you’re an FBI agent.”


	3. Too Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike and Connie with their respective families at Christmas

In the tastefully appointed dining room of a five-bedroom Colonial in Greenwich, Connecticut, Mike Cutter cradled a tumbler of Lagavulin and considered the legal definition of false imprisonment. 

Could social obligation constitute imprisonment? And if so, wouldn’t voluntary consent be rendered meaningless? And how the hell was he going to get out of here?

When his sister-in-law had called to invite him to a Christmas Eve “family dinner,” he had accepted. It had been a moment of weakness. Now, sitting at a long table with his brother, his brother’s wife, and their friends — all professional, middle-aged, Caucasian, and childless — Mike realized the gravity of his error.

He looked at his plate. The chicken was flawlessly roasted, the asparagus and quinoa stuffing perfectly simmered in a white-wine reduction. He looked around the table. The conversation centered on boats, Cirque du Soleil, and property taxes. Mike wondered how quickly he could call a car service to take him to the train station.

“Did you know Rich Templeton makes _seven figures?_” asked the woman seated next to him. Her name was Madison, she sold condominiums on Connecticut’s Gold Coast, and she was recently divorced (“She’s _very_ eligible,” Mike’s sister-in-law had whispered while taking his coat). Madison had spent the past ten minutes breathlessly telling Mike about her clients’ financial and private lives. “He’s a _hedge_ fund manager,” she continued. “_Apparently_ it’s still a very _lucrative_ profession, even in this _economic climate._ Now, I’m not against having_ work_ done — I mean, I _personally_ spend two hours a day at the gym so that I don’t have to _do_ that kind of thing, but I know that not everyone has that kind of _commitment_ — but _honestly_, if your husband’s making seven figures, the work should _probably_ look a little … less like _work?_”

As Madison continued talking, Mike looked down the table at his brother, who shrugged half-apologetically. His wife smiled with encouragement, eyebrows cocked into a question—_isn’t Madison great?_

Mike finished his Scotch. _Unlawful confinement_ _by way of dinner-party chatter_, he thought. If he claimed he had been kept here against his will by Madison’s hypnotizing inanity, would there be sufficient evidence for a grand jury to indict? And could he prosecute the other guests as accomplices? _If Connie were here_, he thought, _I’d make her hunt down the case law to support the charge._ She’d probably find it, too—some obscure local statute he hadn’t considered—but not before ripping his argument to shreds.

“What are you smiling at, Mister Mysterious?” chided Madison. 

“Wasn’t aware I was smiling,” said Mike.

“Like a cat who swallowed a _canary!_ Come on, I _know_ you weren’t listening,” Madison pouted. “Penny for your _thoughts._”

“I was thinking about work,” said Mike, getting up. “Would you excuse me?”

***

In a kitchen on the opposite side of the country, Connie was listening to her sisters, sister-in-law, cousin, and mother chatter in Spanish as they traded family gossip. Connie was seasoning ground beef on the stove as the others wrapped tamales at the table.

Her sister Ana was finishing up a story about a mutual acquaintance. “So she does the whole song and dance: ‘Here’s my resume,’ ‘I’d be a great asset to your company,’ ‘My greatest weakness is I’m a perfectionist’—and then at the very end she says, ‘Do you have any other questions for me?’ And he’s like, ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ And she says, ‘No….?’ And he goes, ‘We’ve seen each other naked.’”

The women dissolved into laughter.

“I can’t believe she didn’t recognize him!” giggled Connie’s sister Sofi.

“How can you go through a whole job interview and not recognize someone you dated?” said cousin Iris.

“Oh, please. They didn’t _date_,” said Ana. “They just—” She looked at her mother, choosing her words carefully. “—spent an evening together.”

“Well,” said Connie’s mother, the gold cross around her neck glinting as she worked the tamale dough, “it sounds like the _evening_ was not that memorable.” 

Everyone dissolved into laughter again. They barely noticed as two small children hurtled into the kitchen in socked feet, crashed into a stool, and careered out the other door.

“Daniel! Lucia!” barked Ramona, charging out of the room. “Slow down NOW! Luis? Are you even watching them?”

The others recovered from their hysterics, wiping tears from their eyes. The sound of a very forbidding opera drifted in from the living room.

“Richard!” called Connie’s mom in English. “Put on something else, _por favor!”_

_“_Something else?” replied her boyfriend, popping his silver-maned head through the door. “Besides Wagner???”

“Yes, besides Wagner,” retorted Connie’s mom, smiling. “I want something Christmas-y! Something light!”

“_Rheingold_ is _very_ Christmas-y, I’ll have you know,” he replied good-naturedly. “It’s all elves and gods.” But after he left the room, the music stopped, and they heard him say, “Louie, help me find ‘something Christmas-y’ for your mother.”

The women in the kitchen worked contentedly in the silence. A few moments later, “Feliz Navidad” came blaring through the door. Everyone groaned and laughed.

“_¡Ay, díos mio!_” said Connie’s mother. “This is not what I meant!”

“Hey, your son put it on!” said Richard. But he turned the volume down.

Ana touched her mother’s shoulder. “You seem happy, Mom,” she said.

“Richard is a good man,” said her mother evenly, wrapping a tamale. “Not many of those left.”

The others nodded. Connie kept her eye on Ana, who avoided her gaze.

“Speaking of _good men,_” said Iris, turning her attention to Connie. “I heard you saw Johnny Martín recently.”

“Johnny Martín, as in your high school boyfriend Johnny Martín?” said Sofi. The others gasped and hooted.

“It was just for work,” said Connie, smiling.

“Johnny Martín?” said Ramona, reentering the room. “Oooh, he was _fine_.” The others nodded in agreement.

“Girl, he’s _still _fine,” said Iris, popping a piece of cheese in her mouth. “I think he’s gotten _better_ looking. He shaved that dumb goatee.”

They all laughed. “The goatee!” cackled Ana. “Do you remember before that, he had that chin strap?” 

“And _what_ is a chin strap?” asked her mother.

“Oh you’ve seen them, mom,” said Sofi. “It’s, like, one, thin line of hair just down the edge of the jawline. No mustache.”

“Oh, yes,” said her mother, shuddering. “Awful.”

“And how do _you_ know what Johnny Martín looks like?” Connie asked Iris.

“I’ve seen him! You remember Maria Suarez, who played in the marching band with me? She works at his club. Said you came in with that boss of yours, and after you left, Johnny was all worked up.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t ‘worked up,’” said Connie.

“Is he in trouble, Consuela?” asked her mother.

“No, Mom,” said Connie. “He was just… helping us with some research. We’re prosecuting a case about… the music industry.” It wasn’t _exactly _a lie, thought Connie. She was not terribly good at bending the truth, but she wasn’t about to reveal to her mother that she had taken on the Vella cartel. Or how close she had come to becoming one of its victims.

“Well, Maria says he was worked up about _something_,” said Iris, who was not about to let the conversation drop. “So it must have been _personal._ Maria said Johnny said, ‘Con’s too_ respectable _for me now.’”

The room let out a low _ooooooooh._

“Con’s too respectable for _all_ of us,” teased Sofi.

“Says the _doctor,_” Connie fired back.

“_And_,” Iris was just warming up, “he also said, ‘If I ever see that short gringo boss of hers in this club again, I’m gonna beat his ass.’”

“Language, Iris!” said Connie’s mom.

“What?” said Connie, alarmed. “He threatened Mike? That’s not funny, Iris. Threatening a prosecutor is serious. Mike was almost killed in the courthouse bathroom just a few months ago!”

“The bathroom?” Iris looked confused.

“He’s gotten more than one death threat, he confronts and incites dangerous people on a regular basis, he has no regard for his personal safety—” 

“Connie, relax,” said Iris. “You know Johnny won’t actually do anything. It was just macho talk.”

“And Mike’s not short!” finished Connie. “He’s 5’10”.”

There was a beat of silence as the other women all looked at each other, eyebrows raised. 

Too late, Connie realized the gravity of her error. Not only had she overreacted, she had never spoken this strongly about a man before—boss, boyfriend, or enemy. Connie loved her family, but she also knew they were gossip-loving jackals. And instead of coolly ignoring their provocations as usual, she had just presented them with a big juicy bone in the form of EADA Michael Cutter. They pounced.

“You know the exact height of your boss, Consuela?” said Sofi slyly as the others _hmmmm_ed and _oooooh_ed.

“‘_Mike_’s not short,’” parroted Ramona. “‘_Mike_’s very courageous.’ ‘_Mike_ is kind of a big deal_.’_”

Connie sighed. “Yes, I call my boss by his first name. I call most of my co-workers by their first name.”

Ramona said innocently, “Yes, I’m sure you have a very proper working relationship with _Mike_.”

“Johnny said he was wearing platform shoes,” said Iris. “Maybe _Mike_ is a little sensitive.”

“Hmmm, you’re pretty tall, Connie,” Ramona took up this new line of teasing. “Maybe _Mike_ just wants to be able to look into your eyes.”

“Maybe _Mike_ incites dangerous people just to prove himself to you,” said Sofi.

In exasperation, Connie waved the wooden spoon in her sister’s direction. “There is nothing going on between me and my boss. It would be inappropriate. I know how you all get—you’re like teenagers. Well, you can stop right now, because there’s nothing to it.”

“I don’t know, Connie,” said Iris slyly. “I’ve seen him on TV. He’s pretty cute. Even if he is your boss. And short.”

“Mike’s not short!” cried Connie.

“Miiiiiiiiiiike,” came the chorus of voices in response. Connie sighed and gave up. She should have known better than to respond. The more she tried to defend herself, the less likely the jackals were to give up the bone.

At least she hadn’t had to reveal her connection to the cartel, she thought. Though somehow this line of questioning felt dangerous in its own right.

***

“Checking in with the _office_?” said Madison as she spotted Mike holding a phone receiver to his ear. The dinner had ended and the guests were spreading out through the house with cocktails in hand. Mike had stepped into the hallway to use his brother’s landline.

“Just calling a car service,” said Mike. “I have to get back to the city.”

“It’s Christmas _Eve_!” said Madison. “And you’ve only _been_ here an hour. Come _on_, stay.”

Mike looked at her. He had actually been there two hours, but she was right—it would probably be impolite to leave so soon. Before he could respond, Madison reached out to the phone and cut off the call.

“I know we’re not as _exciting_ up here as in_ dirty_ ol’ New York City,” she said provocatively. “But we _can_ be fun, I _promise._”

She was far more tipsy than Mike had realized. He didn’t want to embarrass her. He put the receiver back on the phone and tried to move them subtly into the living room, where the others were gathering. Instead, Madison grabbed his tie. “Who gave you this?” she said slyly. 

“A co-worker,” said Mike, gently taking the tie out of her hand.

“Must be a _female_ co-worker,” said Madison.

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s the _exact_ color of your eyes.” She looked right at him.

Mike froze. The tie was a holiday gift from Connie. He hadn’t thought too much of it—she had given Jack a tie too—his was forest green, Mike’s blue—but now, he paused. Girlfriends and flirtatious women had commented on his eyes before—he was aware they were one of his more decent features—but Connie had never—

“Mmmph!”

Madison’s lips landed on Mike’s, interrupting his train of thought. _Damn_, thought Mike. _Should have seen that coming._

He gently extricated himself and said, “Madison, I’m sorry. You’re a very attractive woman, but I’m…”—he searched for the right words—“…not available.”

“Oh, okay,” said Madison, clearly embarrassed. “That’s fine, that’s fine.” She straightened up and grabbed her wine glass from the hall table. “But you know, you _really_ should let your family know you’re ‘not available’ before they start making _promises_.” She turned on her heel and went into the living room.

_Mike Cutter, you are destined to disappoint women_, he thought as he picked up the receiver and dialed the number of the car service.

***

Connie’s family was gathered in the living room, eating, drinking, and unwrapping presents. The family tradition was that everyone got to unwrap one present on Christmas Eve before heading to midnight mass. The rest would keep until morning.

Connie’s mother opened a small white box, pulled out a silver ornament, and gasped.

“What is it, Mom?” asked Sofi. 

“It’s the house I grew up in,” said her mother softly. “In Camargo.” She held up the ornament to show the others. She turned to Richard and asked, “How did you know?”

Richard shrugged. “Te quiero,” he said quietly, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

She laughed. “Your accent is still terrible!” she said quickly. But her eyes held tears.

The moment was interrupted by Joey, the youngest son of Ramona and Connie’s brother Luis, zooming into the room. “Aunt CONNIE!!!” he said. He was five years old and still working on volume control. “I found your PRESENT!” He was holding a wrapped box about the size and width of a large manila envelope. “It was in your SUITCASE!”

“Oh, Joey,” said Connie kindly, taking the box. “That’s not— I mean, this one’s not a family present.”

“But it says Connie!” said Joey, pointing to the tag. “Look! C for Connie!”

“You’re right,” said Connie. “That is a C. Good job! But why don’t we save it for tomorrow? Grab me one from under the tree.”

“Ah, open it, Con,” said Luis. “Who cares?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” said Richard.

“Who’s it from?” said Ana.

Connie hesitated. Smelling blood, Iris, who was sitting next to Connie, peeked at the card. “It’s from _Miiiiiiike!”_ she announced gleefully. The room filled with whoops and cackling.

“Who’s Mike?” Richard asked.

“Mike is Consuela’s supervisor at work,” responded her mother primly.

“Ah,” said Richard, not quite following.

“Open it, Connie!” said Sofi, then added cheekily, “Unless you think it’s lingerie.”

“Lingerie?” said Luis. “From your boss? Do I need to have a talk with this guy?”

“No, it’s fine,” said Connie. “They’re just teasing me. I’ll bet you anything it’s a scarf. I’ll just open it and we can move on to the next gift.”

She removed the paper—a tasteful blue-and-silver plaid—and opened the lid of the box. Iris craned her neck to see. Out of the box Connie pulled a bundle of documents. Everyone stared.

“What is it?” asked Ana.

“It’s… a contract,” said Connie slowly, scanning the first piece of paper.

Iris looked over her shoulder and read, “‘Be it know that this agreement is entered into between Eye-Spy Productions LLC, hereafter referred to as Producer—’”

“He gave you work for Christmas?” said Luis. “_Damn,_ that’s cold.”

“No,” said Connie. “This isn’t anything I would normally work with…” She trailed off as the others waited with bated breath.

Finally, she looked up, smiling. “He got me out of my contract.”

The others blinked.

“Your contract at your job?” said Ramona. “You mean he fired you?”

“No,” said Connie. “No. Do you remember when I was on that terrible reality show? Where we were prosecuting the man who had eight children and murdered his wife?”

“_Court House_?” said Sofi. “The one where the suspects lived in the house and then that jowly guy decided who was guilty?”

“No, that was _Court House 2_,” said Ana. “Connie was in _Court House 1_.”

“Oh, yeah!” said Iris. “I can’t believe I almost forgot about that. You were on TV!”

“That was crazy,” said Luis. 

“You looked great on camera!” said Iris.

“Well, according to my original contract with the show,” said Connie, “the producers could air any episode of the show they wanted to, as often and for as long as they liked, on whatever channel they could sell it to. They could do reruns, syndication, put out DVDs, it was all up to them. But, according to this new contract, they can’t do any of that without my ‘express written permission.’” Connie was beaming.

The others looked puzzled.

“So… your boss made it so that they can’t broadcast the show ever again? Unless you say they can?” said Sofi.

“That’s right,” said Connie. “Which means they never will. Mike knew how much I hated it. I never even want to think about it again.”

“Sounds like _Miiiike_ did you a real solid,” teased Sofi.

“He must have threatened them,” said Ana.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past him,” said Connie, smiling, “but no, this is different. He’s not a contracts lawyer. He wouldn’t have the standing or necessarily the knowledge to—” Connie flipped to the back of the document. “See, this was negotiated by Debbie Howitzer. She’s one of the best contracts lawyers in the country.” Connie frowned. “Her fees are insane. Mike must have pulled some major strings. And it must have taken a lot of his time…” She trailed off, looking at the document.

“This dude is in love with you,” said Luis.

Everyone looked at him.

Ana said, “Well,_ we_ already knew that. But how did you figure it out?”

“I don’t know anything about law,” he replied. “But I know that when a dude does a big-deal present like this… it’s a big deal.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Ramona. “Where’s my big-deal present?”

“We’ve got two of them,” said Luis, hugging his boys tight and looking at her sweetly.

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Ramona, laughing, then looked at her kids. “I love you boys, but your daddy needs to start pulling a _Mike._”

“_Miiiiiiiike!_” echoed the refrain through the living room. 

“Okay, next present!” said Ana. “Boys, go pick one out for your mom.” The chatter and the present-opening continued.

Ana sat down next to Connie. “Good present,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” said Connie, then frowned. “Too good.”


	4. I Don't Know How These Things Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike sets out to convince a judge. Set during season 20, episode 18 ("Brazil").

“Can you finish the Travis plea agreement?” Mike asks Connie on his way out the door. “I’m going to see Judge Bailey.”

“At 7:30 at night?” says Connie, glancing at her watch.

“I found out where she’s eating dinner: L’Hareng Rouge.”

Connie raises her eyebrows. L’Hareng Rouge is about $100 a plate.

“It’s good to be the judge,” says Mike sardonically in response.

“And you’re just going to interrupt her meal? The night before she rules on Shoemaker?”

“I don’t see a lot of other options here, Connie.”

Connie narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t do this with any other judge.”

“Hey, it’s family court, I don’t know how these things work,” says Mike with faux innocence. “Besides, according to my intel, the judge is eating alone. Maybe she’ll be pleased to see me.”

“Oh, I _see_. Deploying the ol’ Cutter looks and charm?” Connie’s sarcasm is bottomless. “At least this time you’re pimping out _yourself_.”

“I was thinking less ‘looks and charm’ — and thank you, by the way — and more … ‘desperate and hurt,’” says Mike, putting his jacket on a chair before straightening his tie. Off of Connie’s quizzical look, he continues: “I spent the day in court being told I had daddy issues and a crap childhood. I might as well get some leverage out of it.”

“So you’re going to play ‘little boy lost’ and hope it melts the judge’s heart?”

Mike nods. “Any advice on the exact approach?”

“It could work…” says Connie thoughtfully. “But I’m sure Judge Bailey has seen her share of little boys lost. You’ll have to be…” — she tries to find the right word — “…sincere.”

“When am I not?!” asks Mike indignantly.

“You’re literally planning to use ‘sincerity’ as a strategy. I’d call that the opposite of sincere.”

“You have a point,” says Mike, starting to roll down his sleeves. “Well, if sincerity doesn’t work out I’ll deploy the looks and charm.” He flashes Connie a smile.

“Leave the sleeves,” says Connie abruptly.

Now it’s Mike’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

Connie’s not looking at him. “Just … leave them rolled up.” She adds unconvincingly, “A lot of women like that look.”

“Really. A _lot_ of women?” 

Connie keeps her eyes locked on her computer screen.

“I’ll have to remember that,” Mike says, smiling, and walks away, knowing he’ll probably remember that for the rest of his life.


	5. Now This Is a Historic Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connie announces she's leaving for a job in Los Angeles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after the end of the series, in 2011, just before Connie appears on Law & Order: LA.

SFX: DONK DONK

TITLE CARD: OFFICE OF DISTRICT ATTORNEY JACK McCOY, 1 HOGAN PLACE. FRIDAY, MARCH 18.

“Connie’s leaving us,” Jack tells Mike as he walks into Jack’s office.

Mike stands agape, looking from Jack to Connie. His Blackberry-holding hand freezes in midair. “What?”

“Mike Cutter sans retort,” says Jack. “Now this is a historic moment.” 

Connie smiles. “I just told Jack,” she says. “I’ve accepted a job in the district attorney’s office in Los Angeles.”

“Los Angeles?” says Mike, sounding like he’s never heard of the place. Then he recovers. “So you can be closer to your mother. Of course. Congratulations. Er, congratulations on the job, not congratulations on … your mother. How is she doing?”

“Still more good days than bad, which is a blessing,” says Connie. “Thanks for asking.” 

An awkward pause.

“When … is your last day?” asks Mike. 

“The 1st,” says Connie.

“The 1st. Okay,” says Mike.

Another pause. The Blackberry is still floating, its owner seemingly frozen. 

“What Mike means to say,” says Jack warmly, “is that we respect your decision but will miss you tremendously. _I_ will miss you tremendously, Connie.” He comes around from behind his desk to envelop her in a hug. “I told Jerry Hardin they better treat you well. Because you’re one of the best, kid. One of the best.”

“A-absolutely,” Mike manages to stutter. “The best.” He’s never heard Jack call her “kid” before. Or hug anyone.

Connie smiles. “Thank you.”

Jack beams at her and steps back. “And further tributes and adorations will be extended at your going-away party, which I hope to be invited to once it’s organized. And that’s all we’ll say about that for now, because Mike looks like he was coming in here with some slightly less important news.”

They turn to Mike.

“Oh, it was just — uh, we got a break on the Nessman case,” says Mike. 

“Marlowe can’t confirm the alibi?” says Connie.

“She wasn’t at the club that night,” says Mike. “You were right.”

“We charged Nessman with man two?” asks Jack.

And just like that, they are back on track.

***

SFX: DONK DONK

TITLE CARD: OFFICE OF EADA MICHAEL CUTTER. AN HOUR LATER.

“I don’t like being ambushed, Connie.” Mike is pacing, holding onto his baseball bat. Connie realizes she hasn’t seen that bat in a long time.

“Ambushed?” she says. “Because I told Jack seconds before I told you? He outranks you.”

“Believe me, I know,” says Mike bitterly. “But you didn’t tell me you were going to a job interview while you were in L.A. Hell, you didn’t even tell me you were _considering_ another job.”

“If you didn’t notice, then I guess I’m handling my workload pretty well. So I don’t see what the problem is. This is standard two weeks’ notice, Mike.”

“We don’t have standard jobs, Connie, and you know it. You’re leaving me with at least a couple dozen cases I’ve barely read the notes on. You’re jumping out of the airplane mid-flight and I’m the only one at the controls!”

“Am I the co-pilot or the flight attendant in this scenario?” retorts Connie.

“Flight attendant? What are you talking about? Have I ever treated you as anything less than an equal in this office?”

“You’ll get a new second chair in minutes,” says Connie, not answering the question. “Jack’s only teasing when he says no one wants it. With your conviction rate they’ll be banging down your door!”

“I don’t care! I want—”

There’s both a cough and a knock at the door.

Mike and Connie turn to see Lupo and Bernard standing there.

“Speaking of banging down doors,” says Lupo. _ At least he has the courtesy to look embarrassed, _ thinks Mike. Bernard, as always, looks coolly bemused.

“I guess this means congratulations are in order,” says Bernard.

“Call me Hollywood Connie!” cracks the ADA. Lupo and Bernard each hug her in turn. _ Since when is everyone on a hugging basis? _ wonders Mike.

“Lupo and Bernard knew?” says Mike, cursing himself even as the words escape his mouth.

“We _ are _ professional police investigators,” says Bernard smoothly.

“Yeah, maybe you should stick to your law books and leave the detective work to us,” says Lupo. Two years ago, the dig would have incited a bitter argument, but now it’s toothless — an in-joke. Lupo’s about to graduate law school in a few months, and Mike's been surprisingly supportive lately. 

“Look, Connie can give you all the details on the way over to the courthouse,” Mike says brusquely, grabbing his coat. “We’re late and I need to shore up some points in your testimony anyway.”

He walks out the door. The other three look at each other and follow.

And just like that, they are (sort of) back on track.

***

SFX: DONK DONK

TITLE CARD: NEW YORK CITY COURTHOUSE, 60 CENTRE STREET. LATER THAT DAY.

“So how _ did _ they know?” says Mike as he and Connie walk down the steps on their way back to the office.

“How did who know what?” says Connie.

“Lupo and Bernard. About you leaving.”

“Mike, we should talk—”

“I’m just curious,” he cuts her off.

Connie sighs. “While I was in L.A. they needed my signature for a warrant application; I had them fax me at the district attorney’s office; Lupo asked why I was there and I didn’t lie.” 

“So … not exactly brilliant detective work,” says Mike.

“If that’s how you want to characterize it.”

“You sound like you’re giving testimony.”

“And you sound like you’re cross-examining.”

They stop in the plaza across from the courthouse. “Mike, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Connie begins. “I…”

Mike doesn’t say anything. They have naturally drifted over to their usual coffee cart. 

Connie continues, “I used Jack as a reference because he’d worked with me as an ADA and, well, his name looks good on my résumé. Lupo and Bernard was an accident. I haven’t told anyone else. Well, I told my mother. But that’s it.”

Without asking, Mike buys a regular for Connie and a regular (no sugar) for himself. 

Her breath is visible in the crisp March air. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think I was unhappy here. I love my work here. I love New York, I love working with you. If I didn’t get the job, I just wanted to … keep going. No complications.”

“You can stop with the explanations,” says Mike. “I get it.”

He hands her the coffee. They walk toward the office.

“I’m being an ass,” says Mike. “I’m sorry. I’m angry that you’re leaving and this is how it comes out.”

“It’s okay,” says Connie. It occurs to her that she has never heard him apologize. Not directly. There have been a few minor changes like that recently. She suspects he’s been in therapy for the past few months but has never asked him about it. 

Mike’s suddenly upbeat mood continues, though it sounds a little forced: “So, Consuela Rubirosa: sincere, absolute congratulations on a job well earned. I hope there’s a pay bump. Who’s your first chair?”

“Jonah Dekker — Joe. Do you know him?”

“Only by reputation. Jack says he’s quite the upgrade compared to who they had there in the ’90s. You ever heard Jack’s L.A. stories?”

“A few. Have you heard the one where he yells at the judge, ‘Speak up, Your Honor, there’s a few—’”

“‘—people in the Bronx who didn’t hear you!’” finishes Mike. They both laugh. “Although I didn’t hear that one from Jack.”

“No,” says Connie. “That one I heard from one of Judge Ross’s clerks.”

And just like that, they are back on track.

***

SFX: DONK DONK

TITLE CARD: D.A.’S OFFICE, 1 HOGAN PLACE. FRIDAY, APRIL 1.

It’s late, and Connie’s going-away party has finally died down. Going-away parties at the D.A.’s office are usually one-drink-in-the-common-room affairs that start at 5 p.m. and end at 6, but this one has lasted hours. _ It’s easy to forget that hundreds of people work here_, thinks Mike as he surveys the detritus covering the fifth floor. For him the world often contracts to just the case at hand. But now it’s apparent just how many people Jack McCoy is responsible for; a good percentage of them just spent most of the evening drinking and laughing among the desks of 1 Hogan Place. 

_ They all came to see Connie, _ thinks Mike. _ Of course. _ Jealousy pings his emotional sonar. No justification for it, he knows. Probably the effects of the whiskey. He looks down at the glass Jack handed him. _ Better take it easy. _

He finds Connie in his office, staring thoughtfully at his desk. 

“Hollywood Rubirosa,” says Mike. “Don’t forget about all us little people when you get to be a star.”

“You’re not little,” says Connie automatically.

“Yeah, I know. It was a clichéd joke. Never mind.”

“Sorry,” says Connie, looking up and smiling shyly. “A little too much Champagne, I guess.”

He stares at her. She looks stone cold sober.

“You hold your liquor better than I do,” he says.

Connie ignores him and looks at the stray cups and plates abandoned in the room.

“Jorge won’t be happy,” she says.

“Jorge?”

“The weekend custodian.”

“The weekend custodian is Desmond,” says Mike.

“No, it’s definitely Jorge.”

“Tall guy who loves the Mets? That’s Desmond.”

“I know Desmond. He’s not the regular custodian, Jorge is.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Why are we arguing about this?”

A beat of silence.

“Because we work too many weekends,” says Mike, smiling. He sits on the edge of his desk and sets down his empty glass.

“Not anymore!” says Connie, spontaneously twirling around.

Mike watches her with amusement. Maybe she _ is _ a little drunk. “You don’t think you'll be running as ragged as you do here? L.A. is just as full of bad guys as New York, Connie. They're just tan and have better hair plugs.”

Connie pauses, frowning. “I know, it will probably be the same. But I wonder…” She trails off, thoughtful again. “Six years in New York… It grows on you. I don’t know how well I’m going to fit in.” 

“A brilliant supermodel with a heart of gold? Oh yeah, they’re gonna hate you,” says Mike sarcastically.

Connie doesn’t answer. She’s still frowning.

“Hey,” Mike says. “Connie. You’ll be great and you know it. I’ve never seen you doubt yourself before, and you’re not going to start now. Besides, they need more people to offset all those Charlie Sheen types they’ve got out there.” 

His jokes aren’t landing. She’s still frowning. He frowns too. He’s never seen her quite like this; her fears and doubts always have to do with cases, victims — not herself. He has the urge to go to her, touch her, tell her without equivocation how much he admires her. But here he is, rooted to a desk and stuck in this forced Henny Youngman routine. 

“Hey, you don’t deserve the pity party here,” he says, unable to stop. “Look at what _ I’ve _ had to endure for _ four _ years.”

“And what’s that?” she says.

Their eyes meet. 

_ Shit _, he thinks.

The room goes still. 

Outside, a bus roars by.

"You know what," he says quietly. 

And there ends the Henny Youngman act. It’s just Mike Cutter now, alive and well and living in New York. _I'm_ _afraid you're stuck with me_. He shrugs. _Might as well ruin everything at the last minute_.

“God’s cruel joke,” he says, not quite believing that he’s saying this aloud, “is that I meet the world’s most attractive, wonderful, bewitching person, and she’s in my second chair. Untouchable."

She is silent. Impassive. Beautiful. 

_ You're an idiot, Cutter. _

Slowly, deliberately, Connie goes to the door and locks it. He watches her as she turns and crosses the room to stand in front of where he sits on the desk. Gently she nestles between his knees, her body parallel with his, faces inches apart. When her hair falls into her face, she doesn't tuck it behind her ear.

She leans in — his breath catches — but her lips merely graze against his before moving to his ear.

“Untouchable?” she whispers. 

She takes his hands and puts them square on her ass.

“Connie,” he gasps.

“Hmmm?” Her cheek hovers next to his. He can’t see her face but he can feel her breath tickling his sideburns.

“I’m your boss,” he says feebly.

“Not anymore,” she breathes.

“Not anymore,” he agrees. Connie's ass is subtly gyrating, moving against his frozen hands. The woman knows what she's doing. He manages to say, “But … I’m not moving to L.A.”

“I know,” she says, facing him again with a smile. “That offer’s not really on the table anyway, counselor.”

“Then what_ are _ you offering, _ counselor? _”

“A weekend,” she says simply. He stares. “That’s the offer, Mike. Take it or leave it. My plane leaves Monday and I'm all packed. My apartment’s empty except a suitcase, a bed … and a very stable kitchen counter.”

His eyebrows leap and his pupils dilate. Connie leans in, murmuring, “Now, everyone says Mike Cutter is relentless in the pursuit of justice. Well, I’m giving you two days to prove just how relentless you can be.”

Connie knows what she is doing.

But so does Mike Cutter.

His hands finally move. He kisses her. Hard. 

And just like that, they are off the rails.

SFX: DONK DONK


End file.
